Page 62 of Refrain

“Fuck!” I shout, startling a woman gazing from an apartment building across the street. Evading her curious stare, I cut through an alley. Then another. Another.

The asshole on my tail is pretty good. They keep up no matter how many detours I take. Their loss though. I’ve got a full syringe in my pocket. I’ve got no fucks left to give, and they’re not even trying to hide. I hear their footsteps. Their breathing echoes off the walls, ragged and unsteady.

By the time I reach the stoop of my place, I’m already reaching for the knife in the mailbox, and I wait while the punk sneaks right up to my front door.

“You got a problem?” I turn, keeping the weapon hidden beneath my sleeve.

They’re standing just beyond the bottom step, their face hidden beneath the hood of a jacket. A familiar jacket. Then the hood falls back, and a mane of dark hair catches the light.

“Are you all right?”

The sound of her voice knocks me back against the door as everything I’ve been blocking out until this point comes rushing back. I want to wash the blood off my hands. I need to shower, scrub away the stink of death and pain. I finished my last cigarette somewhere during the walk here, but my hand is already pawing through my pockets in search of another. I feel more like Arno than ever—I need to drown in a vice. Anything but her.

“Fine,” I grit out. Then I turn to the door, get it open, and shove my way inside without bothering to invite her in. It’s rude. It’s the only way I know how to save myself. “Goodnight—”

She easily muscles me aside, grabbing my chin with her free hand and angling my face toward her. A curse slips between her lips as she traces a corner of my mouth with the pad of her thumb. The slight touch stings, and something warm dribbles down my chin. Oh, that’s right. The fucker did manage to land a good hit before Francisco pinned him down.

I shake my head, batting her hand away. “It’s nothing—”

“You’re bleeding.”It’s everything,she might as well have said.

She scans my face, hunting for any more injuries. The caring-nursemaid act isn’t natural for her. I see the way her hand starts for the edge of my jacket before she presses it to her side at the last minute.

“It’s deep. You’re going to scar—”

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” she repeats. She has that look in her eye. The same one Dante used to get back in the day, when he would tell me to go to bed, and I claimed I wasn’t tired. “Sit down.” She jerks her chin over to the couch and then marches toward it, leaving me to follow.

I’m a dog on the leash of her scent. She smells clean, if that even makes sense. Clean the way an old, worn, stained T-shirt does once it’s been run through the wash a few times. It’s broken in and ragged, but any trace of its struggle has been thoroughly scrubbed from the cotton.

I wonder what she’s tried to scrub from her brain. Her hair is wet—a fact that doesn’t make sense until I notice the thunder rumbling through the walls. I’m wet too, dripping water all over the damn floor.

She grabs a towel from the counter and tosses it in my direction. Then she sets out on a determined scavenger hunt through my kitchen. Without waiting for permission, she snatches up a length of paper towel and some ice from the freezer. Another dishrag. A glass of water, too.

She approaches me, juggling her tools in her arms, and I cross over to the couch.

It feels good to sit down. I’ve forgotten how long I’ve been on my feet. They ache like just about everything else on my body. I’ve probably worn my sneakers out within this week alone.

“Sit still.” She issues the command while she comes closer.

I expect her to stand in front of me, just beyond my reach, but no… She sinks down, right between my spread legs. I can’t smother the impulse that has me attempting to bring my knees together, but I just wind up trapping her between them.

She inhales sharply at the resistance, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she stiffens her shoulders and reaches up to grasp my chin again, each finger searing hotter than a branding iron. She makes her mark on me without even trying, every bit as brutal as the damn Cartel.

“You really should be more careful with your face,” she scolds while manipulating the damp paper towel in her free hand. She’s not gentle when she dabs at my mouth.

I suspect that it’s by design—punishment disguised as treatment.

“I’m fine.” I try to pull my head back, but her fingers tighten their grip.

“You’rebleeding.”She withdraws the paper towel and holds it up as evidence.

Splotches of dark red speckle the surface. The cut must be worse than I thought. When I don’t deny it, her mouth flattens into a smug line, and she returns to her work. I guess this is karma; it’s my turn to play the role of patient.

“I suppose you need a story to take your mind off it,” she adds so casually that one might expect something along the lines ofCinderellaorLittle Red Riding Hood. But, no, happy and sweet is not her style. “So, what will it be?” she wonders without looking up. “A story about a duck or…something else?”

The question reminds me of one of Arno’s games of Russian roulette. It’s not clear which option holds the bullet.

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